


Old Souls

by Innwich



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bird Castiel, Homeless Castiel, M/M, Past Lives, Prostitute Dean, Reincarnation, Siren Dean, Soldier Castiel, Soldier Dean, Temporary Character Death, Victorian, Witch Hunt, World War I, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 20:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2442548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innwich/pseuds/Innwich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel had crossed paths with Dean many times in their past lives, and they had never stopped trying to save each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Souls

Castiel watched as Roman soldiers erected three crosses on the hill. The crowd jeered. A few children pushed past Castiel, splashing mud onto his robes, but he ignored them. He was only here to bear witness, along with his brothers and sisters. He would soon leave Earth and return to Heaven.

Zachariah appeared next to him, wearing an elderly man with a long beard.

“I have a revelation for you, Castiel,” Zachariah said.

“Yes, Zachariah,” Castiel said. “What is it?”

“Do you know the prophecy about the Apocalypse, about the Righteous Man?”

“The Righteous Man will begin and end the Apocalypse,” Castiel said. “I know the prophecy.”

“Good, because we have to prepare for the coming of that prophecy,” Zachariah said.

Castiel frowned. “I’m not aware the Apocalypse is approaching.”

“It isn’t, but there’ll come a time when we need to save the Righteous Man from Hell. Hell is massive; it holds all the souls that have ever gone down there. It’ll be impossible to find one soul without a prepared guide,” Zachariah said. “You’ll be our guide.”

“But I don’t know who the Righteous Man is.”

“No, you don’t. Not yet,” Zachariah said. “You’ll be cast down from Heaven and become mortal. You’ll have to find the soul in your many lives. When you do, you’ll stick with it throughout its incarnations. You’ll keep living and dying until you are attuned to the frequency of the soul.”

Castiel looked sharply at Zachariah, unable to hide his fear. No angels had died since the Heavenly War that resulted in Lucifer’s fall. “I’ll die?”

“You won’t die permanently,” Zachariah said. “You’ll be reborn, and you’ll die many times before you’re done. It’ll be painful.”

“How long will I stay in the cycles of life and death?” Castiel said.

“As long as it is needed. We’re talking about the Apocalypse after all. We can’t be too careful,” Zachariah said. “What do you say? Will you do it?”

Castiel bowed his head, though he couldn’t shake the buzz of unease in his grace. “I’m a soldier. I’ll do as you see fit.”

Zachariah grinned widely, showing his vessel’s blackened teeth. “Don’t disappoint us, Castiel.”

\- - -

The first time Castiel died, he was a bee. He pulled away from his stinger, leaving a trail of intestines on the human he’d stung. His mind was too primitive to realize he was dying.

The next time he died, he was a snake. He lashed out with fear as an eagle grabbed him in its claws and lifted him from the ground, before feasting on him in its nest.

Castiel had been countless animals; he’d lived many lives. He never remembered how it felt to die, despite having done it hundreds of times. He never stopped being afraid when the darkness claimed him.

He was looking for something.

But he didn’t know he was looking for it.

\- - -

** AD 409 **

Castiel flew in the sky, surrounded by his fellow swallows.

Castiel had waited for the weather to turn warm before returning to the land where he was born. Now, he returned after seeing many strange and wonderful creatures on the other side of the world. He’d been looking forward to it. 

Next to the woods where his old nest was, there was a small house where two humans lived. He’d stumbled across it by accident when he’d gotten lost in the woods. One of the humans worked in a field nearby, while the other human could often be found sitting on a chair in front of the house, doing nothing else.

The only times the man moved was to feed Castiel berries, scattering them on the rocky ground.

Perhaps the man was wounded or sick, like some of Castiel’s brethren that were too weak to migrate during last winter and were left to die.

Castiel flew to the house, hoping to get berries, and wondering if the man was waiting for him. The man was there, sitting in his old spot. As soon as Castiel swooped low over the house, the man made soft weak sounds that he didn’t understand. The man sounded happy. 

Castiel perched on his arm, and sang to him.

The man cooed and smoothed the feathers on the top of his head. The man must’ve recognized him.

The man shuddered with every breath he took, and soon stopped moving, Castiel got bolder, and hopped higher onto the man’s shoulder. He pecked at the man’s ear, trying to get a reaction and the berries that he liked very much from his previous visits.

But the man remained motionless.

Castiel kept singing, until a large shadow was cast over him. The other human was back.

Castiel tweeted unhappily as the larger human made loud noises and shooed him away. Strangely, he felt wet droplets falling onto his wings, despite the clear weather. He shook out his feathers, and flew back to his nest.

Castiel returned the next day, but the man was not there.

He didn’t see the man after he returned from his next migration.

He never saw the man again.

\- - -

** AD 1017 **

Bodies of dead men floated next to Castiel. These were men that Castiel had sailed on the same ship, had eaten at the same table for weeks. Distantly, Castiel heard someone calling for help, but the unnaturally thick sea mist made it impossible for Castiel to see anything more than a few feet away from him, not even the sharp rocks that the ship had collided with.

Castiel struggled to keep his head above the water, kicking his legs, but it was difficult when waves swept over his head relentlessly. His limbs were as heavy as stones, since his clothes were soaked and weighed him down. A piece of doorframe slammed into him, making him open his mouth in pain. He breathed in seawater, and sputtered.

He wasn’t going to stay alive for long like this.

A movement caught Castiel’s eyes. Through the heavy mist, Castiel saw a man swimming towards him.

It was a man he had never seen before, but the man was so beautiful. His eyes were glowing green, reflecting the fire that was consuming the wreckage of the ship. He was as naked as the day he was born, swimming through the churning water with inhuman ease.

Castiel recalled the myths about dangerous creatures in the sea. He recalled the eerie music that he’d heard before the ship crashed. The music that had lured the ship’s men to their deaths.

The man was no human. He was a siren. And he was coming for Castiel.

“Please-” Castiel swallowed more seawater and choked. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. The sea was turning dark before his eyes. “Why-?”

_Why were you waiting on those rocks?_

_Why did you crash our ship?_

_Why do you kill us?_

_Why-?_

The last thing Castiel saw was the siren reaching for his hand before he drowned.

\- - -

** AD 1563 **

A strong tide rocked Castiel’s small wooden boat.

Castiel had to crouch low on the boat to keep himself from being thrown overboard, while he held his rope tightly. The other end of the rope was tied around Dean’s hands, as Dean bobbed in the river.

Castiel felt his heart sank lower than ever. Dean was floating. According to the law and the church, it meant Dean was a wizard and worshipped the Devil.

The test was absurd.

Dean was no more than the butcher’s son. Though Castiel had only exchanged a few words with Dean when he visited the butcher, he knew Dean was a good brother to Sam. Dean was a good-humored boy with a foul mouth, which he had used to insult more powerful men in the village than he probably should.

“Let him up,” the village judge said, from atop the bridge where he and a crowd were watching the test. The village judge was a cruel, merciless man. Though he went to church every Sunday and claimed to be a religious man, he had little pity for the common people.. He only had hatred and contempt for his peers. But no one in the village dared defy him, except for Dean.

Castiel pulled the rope, and heaved Dean into the boat.

Dean was drenched and still as he lay in the boat. For a terrible moment, Castiel thought he was dead.

Then Dean breathed and coughed. He spat out water as he sat up.

The village judge proclaimed, “He floated. He is unholy, and the water rejects him. He shall be sentences to be hanged as a wizard.”

“I’m not a fucking wizard!” Dean yelled.

“Are you challenging the result of the test?” the judge said.

“It’s wrong. I’ll prove I’m not a wizard if you let me do it again.”

The judge took a long moment to think, before saying, “I can give you one more chance.”

“I’ll take it,” Dean said quickly. He stood in the boat. “Throw me into the river.”

Dread settled in the bottom of Castiel’s stomach, for the judge never gave second chances to the many men and women that had been put on trial. The only reason that the judge would do this for Dean was so that he could watch Dean die now. “This isn’t right.”

The village judge turned his cold gaze at Castiel. “Are you a wizard too? Are you denouncing God and all that He stands for? Do you want to put on trial too?”

“Leave him out of this!” Dean said.

“Do as I said, Castiel,” the judge said.

Dean stood at the bow of the boat with his hands still tied behind his back. “Just do it, Cas.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel murmured, before pushing Dean out of the boat. Dean fell into the water with a splash.

Dean sank to the bottom of the river.

Castiel held the rope that was tied to Dean, his hand turning deathly pale. Castiel was a religious man. He was a believer. He wasn’t an executor. He didn’t want innocent blood on his hands.

He felt horribly helpless as he watched Dean remaining in the water.

After too many minutes had passed, the judge finally said, “He’s not a witch. Pull him up from the river.”

Castiel yanked at the rope and quickly pulled Dean into the boat. He flipped Dean onto his back. Dean’s eyes were shut tightly and water was trickling out of his mouth. “Please be alive.”

Dean was limp and unresponsive.

Castiel prayed to God with all his might, harder than he had ever prayed before. He couldn’t just be sent to this world to watch innocent men die and evil men be victorious.

By the time Castiel rowed the boat back to the shore, where Sam was waiting with tearful eyes, Dean was dead.

\- - -

** AD 1889 **

Castiel lived in a corner in a dirty alley.

No one ever spared him a glance, except for Dean.

Most nights Dean would wear dresses and wigs and hats and makeup, as he went to meet his clients and perform sexual flavors for them, in order to avoid the scrutinizing eyes of the police. Dean didn’t enjoy dressing up as a woman, since he usually wore shirts and trousers when he was with Sam. Dean looked happiest when he took the young boy out to buy food to warm their bellies.

Castiel had once seen Dean partially clothed, his dress unlaced and his wig clutched in his hand as he had darted down the alley and past Castiel. Once the coppers had arrived, out of breath in their thick uniforms, Castiel had pointed them to another direction, away from where Dean had headed.

He hadn’t expected Dean to bring him bread every Monday and Thursday after that.

Castiel hadn’t helped Dean in hopes for rewards. He’d only hoped Sam wouldn’t be left brotherless. But while Castiel would like to tell Dean to keep the bread for himself and his brother, he was too hungry to refuse any food handed to him.

It’d been a long time since Castiel had a friend.

Then winter came.

It was a cold and brutal winter. In fact, it was always cold in London when it was winter, but this was the first time in years that Castiel failed to find an abandoned house to squat in.

Dean looked haggard these days, despite the rouge and powder that he applied on his face. Castiel couldn’t read, but he had heard the hushed whispers on the streets about the news of the Cleveland Street scandal, in which the police found a male brothel and arrested several men. Then there was the murderer, Jack the Ripper, that still hadn’t been caught.

Dean must be having difficulties soliciting business on the streets.

Castiel wondered if he or Dean would live through the winter.

After a heavy snowfall, the nights were colder than ever. No one had removed the snow in the streets.

Castiel coughed as his throat itched. He hadn’t drank or eaten for a while. The cold air made his throat ache. He didn’t finish the bread that Dean had given him last week. His fingers were swollen and his fingertips had turned black. He didn’t feel so cold anymore. He just wanted to tuck himself into the small corner that was his home and sleep.

“Cas.” Dean was wrapped in a tattered coat, peering worriedly at Castiel. He was holding half a loaf of bread to his chest. He wasn’t wearing makeup, so he must be tending to Sam instead of working tonight. “How are you feeling?”

For some reason, Castiel wasn’t surprised to see Dean anymore.

Castiel tried to speak, but his teeth chattered, and his words were slurred. “Deen, I em ‘ired.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’m sorry,” Dean murmured. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Castiel fell asleep to the sounds of Dean’s apologies. He didn’t wake again.

\- - -

** AD 1918 **

It was the end of the Great War.

Castiel followed his troop, as they liberated a prisoner of war camp in Poland.

The camp consisted of a few dozen wooden cabins on an abandoned field. As Castiel ventured deeper into the camp, he could see dirty starved men peeking out at them from the windows. The buildings must be filled with prisoners of war, amongst which were no doubt some of Castiel’s men.

“It’s a disgrace how our soldiers are treated,” one of Castiel’s men said in disgust.

“Yes,” Castiel said. “I’m glad we can set them free now. We’ll get them home.”

Someone clutched Castiel’s shoulder. The men behind Castiel shouted in alarm. Castiel immediately grabbed his own gun.

“Please help my brother,” a tall gaunt man said, letting go of Castiel. He was dressed in the uniform of the prisoners of war. Tears left clear tracks in the dirt caked on his face. “Dean is dying.”

Castiel gestured for his men to keep going. “Take me to him, uh…”

“Sam,” Sam said, and led Castiel to a small cabin on the other end of the camp.

The cabin stank of sweat and waste and vomit. It was packed tightly with bunk beds, on which thin sickly men were sitting, watching Castiel’s progression into the room. Castiel immediately spotted Sam’s brother, who lay on a bottom bunk that the other prisoners were careful to steer clear of.

Dean was starving to death. His breathing wheezed loudly in the small space. Castiel could see the sharp outline of bones beneath Dean’s skin. He might have once been a tall man, but now he was nothing but skin and bones, with two large dull eyes in his face.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Sam said. “He can’t keep food down, and we don’t have much food to begin with.”

“I need to get him medical help now,” Castiel said. There were only two gauze dressings in his small first-aid kit. It was only meant to patch up gun wounds on his body. It wouldn’t help Dean. The only way to get help for him was to get him some liquid food, and to keep him warm with blankets before he burnt himself out.

Dean mouthed words that Castiel barely caught, “Did… win?”

“We won. The war’s ended. I won’t let you die,” Castiel said fiercely. “I promise you.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered close.

Castiel would be damned if let one more man died under his watch. He said to Sam, “I’ll get him to our trucks. They’ll take him to the military hospital.”

Sam was too weak to hold up Dean. Castiel lifted Dean up easily, despite the gear that he was carrying himself. Dean barely weighed anything.

Castiel stroke out of the cabin, not too quickly that he would jostle Dean, but quickly enough that he drew some stares.

He laid Dean down on the back of a truck waiting outside the camp.

“Dean.” Castiel tried to rouse the man. “Dean?”

Dean’s skin was cooling under his hand.

\- - -

** AD 1946 **

A crowd was gathered around Castiel.

Castiel sat against a lamppost, clutching at his stomach, desperately trying to keep it inside his abdomen. He vomited blood again, too occupied to hope that someone had caught the thief that had knifed him.

Castiel had survived the Second World War. He had marched across Continental Europe. He had waded through the blood of his brothers-in-arms. He had dodged bullets and sidestepped landmines. He had seen Hell on Earth and lived.

He’d hoped he would finish college when he returned home from the war. But now he was going to die from a knife wound in his stomach instead.

“I’m a doctor. Let me through!”

The doctor pushed through the crowd, wearing a fedora and a two-piece suit. He was older than Castiel by a few years, but not old enough to have escaped the conscription.

“You’re too late.” Castiel coughed, tasting blood and bile at the back of his throat.

“What’s your name?” the man said, kneeling next to Castiel.

“Castiel.”

The man pulled off his own tie. “Hey, Cas. I’m Dean. I’m gonna help you. Okay?”

“You don’t have to help me.”

“Easy, buddy,” Dean hushed him. Dean unbuttoned his torn shirt, revealing the wound.

Castiel could see a soft pink mess under the gaping wound. It couldn’t be natural for men to see their own entrails. If Castiel wasn’t delirious from blood loss, he swore he could see it pulsating like a living thing, like what he would see if he peeled the skin off a living frog. “I’m fine with dying.”

Dean worked rapidly, trying to tie his tie around Castiel’s abdomen. He grunted in frustration when he saw that the blood wouldn’t stop flowing. “I’m not going to stand here and watch you die.”

Castiel put a hand over Dean’s wrist, stilling him. “You’ve done your best. It’s not your fault.”

“You’re just a kid. You haven’t lived long enough,” Dean said stubbornly. “I’m not letting you die.”

“I’m not a kid. I’ve seen too much pain and suffering,” Castiel said. “I’ve seen enough.”

Dean clasped his hands over Castiel’s. Dean’s hands were slick with blood, but they were warm and steady. They were the hands of a veteran. “You are an old soul.”

“The war could do that to people,” Castiel mumbled, getting weaker from blood loss.

“Hey, stay with me.” Dean tightened his grasp on Castiel’s hands. “Stay with me.”

Castiel appreciated the small token gesture of comfort, as he gradually slipped from consciousness.

\- - -

“Welcome home, Castiel.”

Castiel woke in an unfamiliar room. It was flooded with white light that only existed in Heaven, light that would blind any human eye that looked at it. Castiel stretched his wings, and groaned as they cramped from disuse.

Zachariah, with his many faces, towered over Castiel. “It’s time we pull the Righteous Man out of Hell.”

Castiel led his garrison through the gates of Hell.

Tortured souls screamed at the angels as the angels fended off demons and hellhounds. Castiel tuned out the calls for salvation, until only one voice remained, more familiar to him than his own brothers. He followed the soul’s voice like he was born to do it.

He’d found the soul throughout time and creation and lives and deaths. He would find it again.

Deep in the bowels of Hell, several layers below a lake of fire, Castiel found the soul. It was using a razor to gouge out the eyes of a soul that was chained to a rack. The chained soul screamed as its skin charred from a brush of Castiel’s wings, but he paid it no mind.

“Dean.”

The soul of the Righteous Man was covered in blood and guts, and yet it still shone bright under the filth. Confused, the soul turned to face Castiel, unflinching as it stared upon his wings and glory. It dropped its razor and, as if in a trance, reached up for Castiel with a shaky hand. The soul knew Castiel as well as Castiel knew it, for they’d been through many lifetimes together.

“Cas.”

Castiel laid his hands on the soul, and raised it from brimstone and hellfire.

He knelt in its coffin, and knitted flesh and bone back together.

And for the first time in a long time, he breathed life into the Righteous Man.

“Dean Winchester is saved.”


End file.
